I'm Afraid to Go Home in the Dark
by 1 of 1 secondary drone
Summary: Post "Mystery Spot." Sam's been acting weird, and Dean's going to get to the bottom of it, no matter what. Because as long as he was here, he would take care of his little brother. No slash. I don't own Supernatural.


Dean glanced at Sam, frowning. Sam had been sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, staring out of the window, unmoving. Dean would have thought he was asleep, except for his eyes were open as he stared at the passing farmland. Every once in a while he seemed to wake up from his trance-like state with a jerk and stare around, eyes wide, until he seemed to realize where he was and would resume staring out the window.

In contrast to the statue-like position of his brother, Dean couldn't stop fidgeting. Sam's lack of communication was making him antsy. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, rolled his shoulders, scratched his face, shuffled his jacket around, and hummed, but Sam didn't react. He eventually flicked on the radio to the heaviest rock station he could find and cranked the volume, hoping to elicit some kind of response from his brother, but aside from Sam blinking a few times, nothing happened.

Dean growled in frustration and turned the radio off again. They were on a deserted two-lane highway in the middle of midwest farm land, so Dean pulled over to the shoulder and stopped the car. Sam shook his head and turned to face Dean.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice quiet and level.

"What do you _think_'s wrong?" Dean snapped. Sam blinked.

"Flat tire?" he suggested.

"It's not a goddamn flat tire." Dean growled. "What's wrong with _you_?" Sam frowned and raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.

"Nothing's wrong with me, Dean." he said.

"It's eleven pm. We left the motel at ten in the morning, and you haven't said a word except to order lunch and talk about the case."

Sam shrugged. "What else is there to talk about?" he asked.

"Sam, you've been staring out that window all day. I know there's nothing to interesting out there. You haven't complained once about anything, not even the Iron Maiden I was playing." Dean pointed out. "When Sammy doesn't complain, you know something's wrong."

He only said this to get Sam annoyed enough to spill the beans, but it didn't seem to work. "I'm just tired, Dean."

"Then why don't you get some sleep instead of staring out the window?"

"I don't know, I guess I'm just stressed about the case." Sam offered. Dean slammed his hands on the wheel.

"This isn't about the friggin' _case_! You and I both know this is just gonna be a salt-and-burn, nothing special. You've never been like this."

"Maybe we've missed something." Sam suggested. "I don't think this is going to be as easy as you think."

"Come on, man, we did the research!" Dean said exasperatedly. "Old house with the original owner buried on the property, stuff getting thrown around, two family members already killed. What else could it be?"

"A poltergeist." Sam suggested quickly.

"Dude, that's way less likely." Dean dismissed him. "Ghosts are more common."

"Whatever." Sam said, in a way that clearly suggested he was pissed off but wanted to end the conversation.

"Seriously, man, what has gotten into you?" Dean asked, trying and failing to keep the concern out of his voice.

"Nothing." Sam said curtly. "Let's just get to the motel."

Dean sighed, and, knowing he wouldn't get anything more out of Sam just then, switched the car back on and sped down the road again. Just because Sam didn't open up then didn't mean he would stop asking. He'd figure him out eventually.

They continued driving for another half hour. Dean, feeling stifled by the silence, switched the radio on again. If Sammy wasn't going to complain, he was going to savor the moment.

The Def Leppard song ended and the crooning of Asia filled the car. Dean grinned as he hummed along to the verse, building up to the chorus.

_It was the heat of the moment, telling me what your-_

Sammy gasped beside him and jerked around, staring wildly around, his eyes wide.

"Dean!" He shouted. Dean startled at the sudden sound and the car veered slightly before Dean righted it again.

"Jeez, Sammy! What the hell?"

Sam struck out blindly, fueled by some inexplicable rage. He reached for where he normally kept his gun, and, upon finding it missing, he slammed his fist on to the off button on the dash, clicking the radio off again.

The car was silent, save for the rumbling of the engine and Sam's heavy breathing.

"Care to explain what the hell just happened?" Dean snapped.

"I just forgot where I was for a minute." Sam said quietly, an entirely different person from just seconds ago.

"What?" Dean asked, confused.

"Nothing." Sam switched the radio on again, turning the knob to a random station, which seemed to be some kind of spanish talk show.

"Dude, explain."

"I just...I don't like Asia." Sam shrugged.

* * *

When they got to the sleazy motel on the outskirts of town, Sam climbed out of the car as soon as Dean turned the ignition off and stepped inside. Dean just watched from the car as Sam spoke to the cute redhead behind the counter. She glanced out the window at him and giggled, which made Sam turn red from embarrassment. Dean grinned. He really wished he could hear what was going on.

When Sam came back out, he was wearing his usual bitchface.

"So what did the hottie say to you to ruffle your feathers?" Dean smirked, punching Sam on the shoulder. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he responded. They grabbed their bags out of the trunk and Sam led the way into the small motel room, most of which was colored with a rather sickly shade of green paisley.

"Home sweet home." Dean sighed, tossing his bag on the bed. "I'm gonna hit the shower. You gonna set up the protection?"

Sam held up the salt from where he was rummaging in his bag as response. Dean nodded and headed for the bathroom.

When he returned, it was to find Sam sitting at the table on his laptop, several bags of takeout next to him.

"You already got dinner?" Dean asked. Sam started and looked up at him.

"Oh, yeah. Thought I go ahead while you were in the shower. You take forever in there."

"Hey! I take shorter showers than you do!" Dean cried indignantly. Sam rolled his eyes as he stood up to head to the shower himself.

"Yeah right." he scoffed.

Dean decided not to dignify that with a reply and instead grabbed a takeout bag and threw himself on the bed in front of the TV. Sure enough, though, not ten minutes later, Sam emerged from the bathroom.

"Told you I take shorter showers." he taunted.

"Fluke." Dean disagreed. "Yesterday you took, like, thirty minutes in there."

Sam didn't answer, instead sitting back down in front of his computer.

Awhile later, Dean heard Sam shut some book he was reading with a very annoyed-sounding snap.

"Dean, I can't focus with that thing blaring." he complained. "Turn it off." Dean grabbed the remote and instead cranked the volume up.

"What was that?" he asked. "Sorry, I can't hear you over the TV."

Sam threw him a bitchface and pulled his earbuds out of his bag and plugged them into his computer, probably to listen to some music or something. Dean grinned and graciously decided to turn the TV down to its normal setting. Maybe Sam's funk in the car was just a phase. He had more mood swings than a fifteen-year-old girl.

* * *

When Dean got up the next morning, however, it seemed that whatever had been troubling Sam was still there. His bed sheets were smooth and tight enough to bounce a quarter on them, and all of his belongings save his computer were already packed into his bag. Dean could smell coffee, and, glancing over to the table, saw Sam sitting there, his hair damp, a plain, half-eaten bagel sitting on a napkin next to his computer.

"Dude, this isn't boot camp." Dean said, rolling out of bed. Sam jumped and turned, glancing back at him.

"So you're finally awake?" he asked.

"Dude, it's…." Dean glanced at the clock. "It's only eight. What's the big rush?"

"I just forgot how late you slept, that's all." Sam said nonchalantly, turning back to his computer.

"What do you mean, you 'forgot?'" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. He stood up, stretched, and shuffled over to where Sam had put the food.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Nothing. I mean, it just...I don't know, I just didn't think about it."

Dean gave him a skeptical glance as he bit into a cinnamon roll.

"Right." he said, not buying it. He looked Sam over. He had dark circles under his eyes, and seemed hunched in on himself. "Hey, you all right? Did you get any sleep last night?"

"What?" Sam looked up again. "Oh, yeah. Just had some stuff to do."

"Stuff?" Dean asked. "What stuff had to be done in the middle of the night?"

"Just making sure we have everything we need." Sam shrugged. "I wasn't tired anyway. I went ahead and did some organizing too."

Now Dean was starting to feel a twinge of concern. "Organizing? What exactly did you organize?"

"It was just stuff, I felt like it was too messy. We couldn't find anything."

Dean stared. He felt anger growing in him. "You didn't."

Sam didn't say anything.

"_The Impala_?" he hissed. "What have you done to her?"

He dropped the cinnamon roll and dashed outside. His baby sat there, seemingly untouched, but Dean knew better. He hurried to the trunk and yanked it open, lifting the false bottom as well. He froze.

It was like he was transported through time. He felt as though he was eighteen again, and his father still had the trunk perfectly organized, with moulded foam for the guns and weapons stored by the type of creature they were used against. Sam had done this? Why? Where the hell did the kid even _get_ moulded foam in the middle of the night?

He slammed the trunk lid shut again and stalked back inside the motel room.

"What the hell, Sammy?" he growled. "You touched my car! You messed up my trunk!"

"I organized it." Sam shrugged calmly.

"It's like when Dad was around." Dean snapped. Sam frowned.

"It's not...well, that wasn't the intention. I was just keeping it organized. I just...forgot."

Dean frowned. That was the second time Sam had used that phrase that morning. Something was definitely up.

"What do you mean 'you forgot?' You've said that twice now, what the hell do you mean?"

"Just forget it." Sam muttered. He grabbed his bag from beside the door and took it outside. Dean slammed his hand on the table in frustration. What was Sam keeping from him?

* * *

They arrived at the house just after sunset. Sam and Dean climbed out of the car and Sam opened the trunk. He grabbed the salt, his shotgun and some extra shells, then made his way to the house.

"Hey!" Dean called to him. Sam ignored him. Dean rolled his eyes, grabbed his shotgun, sent the perfectly organized trunk another dirty glare, then slammed the lid and followed Sam in.

Sam was already in the living room when Dean caught up to him.

"Dude, what the hell? We go in together, cover each other's backs. Understand?" he hissed.

"Yeah, yeah." Sam waved him off.

"What are we even doing in here? The guy isn't buried in the living room."

"Just wait." Sam said, and sure enough, the lights began to flicker. A tall glass cabinet across the room flew open and a china tea cup hurled itself at them. They both ducked as more ceramics began flying toward them.

"Dammit, we've got its attention." Dean growled. "Why didn't we dig him up?"

"The activity is centered here." Sam said, just as the over-stuffed chair they were hiding behind turned and slid across the ground toward them. They both leapt to either side.

"Why?" Dean asked as the wind in the room picked up, rattling through the still-untouched china and howling down the chimney. "Is there a personal artefact of his here?"

"It's not him, it's-" Sam got picked up and bodily slammed against the wall before he could finish his sentence. He slid to the floor, blood trickling from a spot near the back of his head.

"Sammy!" Dean roared, but he, too, was thrown against the wall. His vision blacked for a moment, and there was a ringing in his ears.

He opened his eyes and shook his head to clear his vision. The table was hurtling toward Sam, but he pulled out his shotgun and blasted a spot near where the table had been. The table crashed to the grounded and skidded to a stop a few feet from Sam.

"It's a poltergeist!" Sam explained. The china began rattling again, and before Dean could react, a shard sliced open a cut on his forehead.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. Dean blinked the blood from his eyes.

"I'm fine, let's gank this sonuvabitch!" he snapped. Sam turned and began uttering some kind of latin.

"What are you doing? It's not a friggin' _demon_ Sam!" Dean growled.

"It's a Vanquishing spell!" Sam shouted over the wind. "It'll get rid of it!"

He once again took up his chanting. Dean had never heard of a Vanquishing spell, but it was certainly doing _something_, because the room suddenly filled with a high-pitched shrieking sound.

"You're supposed to kill it, not piss it off!" Dean shouted.

"I'm trying!" Sam retorted. The couch flung itself at the two of them, and they jumped to the side again, Sam never slowing down or stumbling over the words.

The poltergeist threw them both into the wall again, but it was definitely weaker.

The glass cabinet rattled again, and Dean shot a spot of air near it. It screeched again.

Sam finished off his incantation, and the invisible spirit let out one more inhuman shriek before going up in flames. The wind died down, and after everything, it seemed unnaturally quiet.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam rushed to him, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the room. "Hang on, Dean. You'll be fine."

Dean felt dizzy and lightheaded from a combination of slamming into the wall and the cut on his forehead, but he was pretty sure Sam was overreacting. They'd pulled through way worse than a measley little poltergeist and been fine.

"Here, keep this on your forehead, it'll stop the bleeding." Sam whipped off his jacket and handed it to Dean. He pulled open the car door for him and pushed him inside, gently but insistently. Once he was sure Dean was situated, he strode around the car, slid into the driver's seat, and took off.

"Hey, Sammy, come on!" Dean complained. "_I_ drive, you get shotgun, that's the way it works."

"You've got a head injury, Dean, do you think I'm stupid?" Sam asked, going _way_ above the speed limit.

"Geez, man, slow it down, would you? I'm not dying over here, you know."

Rather than relieving the tension, as Dean had hoped, Sam's frown only deepened and he even edged the speedometer up a few miles.

In what seemed like no time at all, they were back at the motel, and Sam was once again helping Dean out of the car and half-carrying him to the door.

"I'm not a toddler, Sam, I can walk." he insisted, but Sam ignored him.

Sam took him into the bathroom and sat him down on the edge of the bathtub before getting a wet towel and dabbing at the cut.

"It's not as bad as it looks." Dean insisted. "Head wounds bleed a lot."

"You need to stitch it up." Sam said seriously. Dean looked at it in the mirror, then gave Sam an incredulous look.

"Stitches? it's a scratch! I'll slap a butterfly on this thing and it'll be fine."

"I'm not taking any chances." Sam said.

"Yeah, neither am I." Dean insisted. "Come on, you've babied me all the way home. It's your turn."

"Me?" Sam seemed honestly surprised at the thought of fixing himself up. "I'm fine. Just a bit bruised from getting thrown around."

"I thought I saw blood at the back of your head that first time." Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam sighed.

"Head wounds bleed a lot, like you said. Look, see?" he pulled his hair apart where the wound was. "Not even enough for a bandaid."

Dean scanned it critically, then finally gave it approval.

"Fine. You get first shower, though. Better clean it out. Just in case."

"Yes, mother." Sam mocked. Dean rolled his eyes and left the bathroom.

Several minutes later, Dean still didn't hear the water running.

"Sam?" he called through the door. "You still in there?"

"Geez, can't a guy have a little privacy?" Sam whined.

"You were the one bragging about how fast you are in the bathroom." Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, just taking care of a few scratches. Nothing to worry about." Dean would have left it at that, but he heard the tightness in his brother's voice.

"Sam? You okay? I thought you said you were just bruised a bit."

"I just missed a few minor scratches, everything's fine." Sam said impatiently.

"Dude, I can tell when you're lying." Dean sighed.

"Seriously Dean, I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

"Sam, if you don't open the door now I'll break it down." Dean warned, only half-joking. "Tell me what's going on."

"Don't come in here, Dean." at the sound of his brother's voice, Dean got ready to force the door open.

"Sam, I don't care if you're completely naked right now, if you don't open the door, I will."

After a moment of silence, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Dean was relieved that his brother did, in fact, have pants on, but that was where the relief ended. Sam was currently sitting on the toilet, his shirt off, in the middle of stitching up a long, narrow gash that stretched across his abdomen. The first aid kit and a half-empty bottle of whiskey were both open on the counter, and the floor was covered in bloody towels. Sam gave Dean a sheepish smile.

"Sorry about the mess."

Dean was still staring at his little brother _sewing himself up_.

"I'm supposed to do that!" he exclaimed, not able to keep the horror out of his voice. "You didn't tell me!"

"I didn't want to worry you." Sam said calmly. Dean was still unsure of how he was so calm. "I was just finishing here."

"You can't sew yourself up!" Dean said, still not grasping the fact that his brother was stitching a giant gash across his stomach by himself without making a noise. The usual procedure for this kind of thing was for them to lie on the bed, numb the pain with alcohol, then bite down on a belt or something while the other held them down and got it done as fast as possible. But now Sam was sitting here in the bathroom, clearly completely sober, holding a conversation with Dean while he did this.

"Well, clearly I can." Sam said, lowering the needle to continue stitching. "You weren't supposed to see this."

Before Sam could pierce his skin again, Dean grabbed his hand.

"Stop it, Sammy." he insisted, looking at his younger brother's face. His emotionless face. "Just stop it. I'll do the rest."

Sam wordlessly handed the Dean the needle and Dean set to work. Sam sat perfectly still as he worked, watching the rythmic motion of the needle.

"All done." Dean said hoarsely when he finished. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go grab us some beers and you can tell me _what the hell is going on_."

Sam sighed and stood, following Dean back into the motel room.

"I can explain." he said, buttoning his shirt.

"Yeah, you'd better." Dean growled. He cracked open a beer. "_Now_."

Sam sighed. "It's not...It's not as bad as it looks, Dean."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked. "Why don't you tell me what you think it looks like, then? 'Cause from where I'm standing, you've been weird since yesterday morning. Was it that Trickster thing in Florida?"

Sam seemed frozen for a moment, then relaxed the tense stance he had and nodded once. "Yeah. It was the Trickster."

"What did it do to you?" Dean asked, a bit more concern edging into his voice rather than anger. "Tell me."

Sam cast a hand over his face. "You know."

"You watched me die." Dean supplied, when Sam didn't continue. "Every day. Like Groundhog's Day, right?"

Sam nodded, and Dean sighed.

"How many Tuesdays was it?"

Sam's face tightened again. "Tuesdays." he paused. "A year. A full year of Tuesdays, Dean. And every single day you died. Do you know what that's like?"

Dean shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around it. A _year_. He was going to kill that son of a bitch Trickster.

"I can't imagine what that was like." Dean said, looking back at Sam. "But I know what it's like for you to die. Remember? In South Dakota? You were dead for three days. You woke up each time I died, right? Right after I died? But I had to wait _three days_. I know it's hard man, but you've got to work through this."

Sam's face seemed to harden in anger for a fraction of a second, but he schooled it back to an expressionless mask so quickly Dean thought it might have been a trick of the light.

"Three days." he said, as though trying to remember. "Right."

"If it would make you feel better, we can hunt the bag of dicks." Dean offered. "Show him not to mess with the Winchester bros."

Rather than the calming affect he'd intended the statement to have, Sam looked horrified. "_No_." he said adamantly. "We can't hunt him."

"What?" Dean was taken aback. "Why not?"

Sam's expression was unreadable, and that scared Dean. He'd always been able to tell exactly what Sam was thinking. But as Dean thought about it, he realized he hadn't been able to guess what was going through Sam's head since the Broward County fiasco. There was definitely something Sam wasn't telling him.

"Just...leave it alone." Sam said softly. "Please."

"There's something else going on." Dean accused, standing up from where he'd sat down on the bed. "What else did he do?"

When Sam didn't answer, Dean frowned.

"Dammit, Sam, how am I supposed to help you if you don't tell me what's wrong?"

"I made a deal with him." Sam said quickly, glaring. "He promised to never mess around with your death again if I didn't hunt him. I agreed. What was I supposed to do, Dean? It had been _six months_!"

"Wait, what?" Dean asked. "When did you make the deal? I was right there when you cornered him, he never said anything about a deal. And what are you talking about, six months? You just told me it was a year."

When Sam didn't answer, Dean continued, thinking out loud, trying to put the pieces together. "And earlier you said you 'forgot.' How could you forget my habits if you woke up with me every day? And when did you learn how to sew yourself up? And how did you know it was a poltergeist before we got there? And I've never heard of a vanquishing spell before, but you knew it by heart. And-"

"You were dead!" Sam shouted, cutting Dean off. Contrary to Sam's previous emotionless expressions, he now had a look of desperation on his face. "Six months, you were dead!"

Sam was breathing heavily, obviously emotionally unstable after this surprising outburst.

"What do you mean I was dead?" Dean asked, not comprehending the meaning of the words. "You said you woke up and I was alive again every day."

"Every _Tuesday_." Sam said, and after being so silent, it seemed he was ready to get it off his chest. "Three hundred and sixty five _Tuesdays_. Then he used the strawberry syrup, and I knew he was the thing that changed. We cornered him outside the bar, and he agreed to stop the timeloop. And then it was Wednesday, and you were alive, but then you were dead. _Again._ And you didn't wake up, and I was alone."

"What are you talking about?" Dean was now extremely concerned for his brother. "What do you mean?"

"_It was the Trickster_!" Sam snarled. "You went to the parking lot to load the car, and there was a gunshot, and you were dead. For six months. I burned your body and I organized the Impala and I hunted alone. I chased the Trickster all over the country. I was a machine. I didn't care about collateral damage. I killed everything I could find. And then I found him. He told me he was preparing me for when you went to hell. I was going to kill him, but we struck a deal. He would bring you back, and I would never bother him again. And he agreed. We went back to the Wednesday after that goddamned Mystery Spot, and that was it."

Dean was reeling. Everything Sam had done since they'd left, every odd thing he'd said, now made horrible sense. He jumped everytime Dean entered the room or spoke, because he was used to the silence. He'd always known that Sam was a bit of a control freak, and when Dean was gone, he guessed that Sam had taken that to the extreme, making his bed, getting up at ungodly hours of the morning, organizing the trunk, barely eating anything and only speaking when it was mandatory. He said he'd 'forgotten' Dean's habits because he really had-six months without someone and he had gotten into his own routine, the routine of a person who was alone. And as terrible as it was, Dean was almost glad for it-because if his little brother could go on for six months without him, he would survive after Dean was in hell.

"Come here, little bro." Dean said. He wasn't a touchy-feely type, but he was gonna push that aside for right now, because right now Sam needed him. And when Sam didn't move forward, he stepped forward instead and pulled him into his arms. And when Sam collapsed against him like a broken man, he held him tight. And when Sam clutched at him like Dean was water in a desert, he leaned into Sam and let Sam drink him in.

Because even if he was going to hell, he was still here with Sam. And as long as he was here, he would take care of his little brother.


End file.
